


Just a Hobby

by Anonymous



Category: Video Blogging RPF
Genre: M/M, One-Sided Attraction, Self-Harm, and i project on you heavily, but im not gonna let you click on this without a warning, i hate this fic and you should too, i just cant write bad and NOT mention his crush on skeppy, im sorry badboyhalo for doing you like this but i wanted to vent, im supposed to be updating my fic that ppl actually can enjoy but no i did this, in conclusion, its not actually that graphic (imo), thats just the way the muffin crumbles i guess, the writing is prob subpar because you understand im not gonna make people proofread this right?, this is Not a romance so dont come here for that, ya feel?
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-12-03
Updated: 2021-03-08
Packaged: 2021-03-09 19:40:03
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 8
Words: 5,836
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27851826
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/
Summary: VENT FIC!!!! PEOPLE THAT STRUGGLE WITH SELF-HARM, PLEASE DON'T READ. BBH, PLEASE DON'T READ. IN FACT, NO ONE SHOULD PROBABLY BE READING THIS BUT I'M POSTING IT ANYWAY AS A CRY FOR HELP :) /hj
Relationships: Minor or Background Relationship(s), Zak Ahmed/Darryl Noveschosch
Comments: 19
Kudos: 115
Collections: Anonymous





	1. White Light Doorway

**Author's Note:**

> why did you click on this theres not gonna be plot, you understand right?? idk ill probably update this as my mental health declines so yaaaaaaa ily all do not do anything written in this fic or ill break your legs

Bad shook, bare-chested in the chilly air of his bathroom. The dull white light reduced his skin to ivory, making the slices across the skin even more visible, the dried blood contrasting like the difference between night and day. The scars looked… he didn’t know how to describe it. Something about them made his lips turn up into a slight smirk as his trembling hand picked up the heavy weight of the blade.

Just because he hasn’t been throwing his knives doesn’t mean they’ve been out of use, much to the contrary, he’s been keeping them nice, polished, and sharpened. They’re almost as beautiful as the marks they make, and he enjoys just flipping it around in his hand, watching at the way the light bounces off it in the mirror in fascination. So pretty, so deadly, so tempting. A wrong move could end his life, the right one could make him elated for the rest of the week. It reminded him of someone he knew, in a way. He couldn’t resist them, would give in no matter the consequences. 

Finally, when the cold pricking Bad’s skin reminded him to get this show on the road, as he smoothly dragged the knife across a clean patch of skin, from the left side of his waist to a few inches above his belly button. His breath hitched at the sting, before exhaling as small pearls of blood beaded along the cut. The first one with a freshly sharpened knife was always the best and scarred the worst. His heart pounded faster in exhilaration, the pain already fading as he went to graze his skin with the dagger, again and again, eventually slicing it across his throat.  _ Uh oh, probably shouldn’t have done that one. _ But there was something so… pleasing when he thinks about others seeing, gazing upon the red marks that they would probably find horrid or pitiful. But Bad doesn’t want their disgust or pity, he almost feels pride when he sees what he’s done, maybe he wants the others to admire them, too. But he’d never do that, never show anyone what he’s done. He knows they won’t see it the way he does, a fun hobby, maybe a little risky at times, but really no different from skydiving or weight lifting, if you think about it. 

The strange thing is, he  _ knows  _ he’d be mortified if he found out someone close to him was doing the same thing; if Dream, Sapnap, or-god forbid-  _ Skeppy _ came to tell him the same things Bad tells himself, there’s no way he’d allow it continue. He’d get them all the help they needed, he’d make sure they heal, they ‘get better’. So, why’s it different for himself? Why the hypocrisy? Maybe it’s because he doesn’t see it as a problem. He’s not doing it because he hates himself, or because he wants to die. He does just because… well, it’s fun. 

He frowned as he realized the second round of cuts didn’t bleed, the skin reddening and rising slightly, but not broken. He needed to press harder, take in slow and steady to really leave a mark. This time across his upper arm, he slowly drug the edge of the blade on the skin, but it only left a few areas actually bleeding. 

Darn it, he got too excited and dulled it already. He could either deal with making pitiful attempts that would only last a few days or go back to sharpen it. His roommate would be getting back soon, so he probably doesn’t have enough time for the latter. Whatever, he’ll make up for it tomorrow. 

Pressing down as hard as his own nervous system would let him, he slashed his forearm harshly, wincing at the pain. The much-desired blood pooled up again and he smiled, an open-mouthed one with wide eyes that he knew made him look maybe more-than-slightly deranged, but he didn’t care. The pooling blood was too lovely, he immersed himself in the color, panting slightly and hunched down. Bad didn’t know how long he’d been staring when he heard the faint clinking of keys struggling to get in a lock. Uh oh. 

Grabbing some toilet paper and haphazardly wiping away most of the blood, he quickly slid on the first black hoodie he saw on the way out of his room. At the sight of the stylized ‘S’ on the front, he muttered, “Sorry Skeppy hoodie,” with a small smile on his face before heading out to the living room, feeling his blood dampen the inside of the sleeves. 


	2. Soap

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ok so maybe i lied about it not being that graphic. idk this one seems worse than the last one but idk. i did make it a bit more wholesome at the end tho so owo there ig. also @ everyone who kudos-ed this, are you good?? do u wanna talk??? like i get it bro but fr. alsoooo everyone who commented, ur so nice and sweet but also i have too much anxiety to reply to them just know i am in love with you

Bad ended up pulling out one of his old turtlenecks to wear around the house to cover the small cut on his throat. Dark grey and baggy, it reminded him of his high school days. He had to be so careful back then, hiding himself from his parent’s prying eyes, becoming well-versed in small white lies, he nicked himself while shaving, or their dog had gotten a little too rough while playing, or he was feeling chilly, even in the summer heat. He knew there were long dried bloodstains on the inside of the sleeves, now dull brown and unnoticeable unless you were looking for them, as Bad sometimes did. 

There was something nostalgic about the small box of razor blades he got out, tucked away in the back of the bathroom drawer, behind the toothpaste and floss and mouthwash. He never needed razors for their intended use, owning one of those small electric ones that gets the job done quickly enough to excuse its uneven shave. Unfolding the paper, he revealed the dull shine of the metal. He briefly wondered what it was made out of, probably steel or something, it might say on the box.  _ Ooh, “ _ stainless _ steel,” fancy!  _

Bad twisted the knob of the shower, all the way to the left, knowing the temperature would make him feel like he was getting boiled alive. Now, though, the water that dripped on his hand was ice cold. He cringed, he’ll probably have some time before it warms up.  _ What even makes steel stainless anyway? _

He pulled off his sweater.  _ I’m pretty sure that’s not even true, the blood’ll stay on there if it's not wiped off, that’s totally a stain.  _ He shimmied out of his sweatpants as well.  _ Well actually… what is a stain? What’s the definition? Maybe it's only like for food or something… _

Finally, he found himself in the same position as he was in yesterday.  _ Where to start…?  _ The most satisfying bloodflow came from places like the arms or legs, and while arms bruised the best, legs-especially shins- cut open better. Where to waste the blade’s fresh edge? Finally, he decided on the classic, a horizontal gash on the wrist. He could never hold steady enough for the vertical cut to work out, and it wasn’t like he was trying to die, anyway, so it was kind of pointless. His left arm had been pretty scarred up already, and though he wasn’t opposed to intersecting a few lines, the right arm deserved the same treatment, bare except for a few stray lines, old and healed up. 

Careful not to press too hard, instead nestling the edge on the side of his wrist, he wanted it to catch the skin just right before applying too much pressure. He took in a deep breath and exhaled with the movement of the razor, pain searing through in a way that told him he did it just right. At parts, the top layer of skin had separated, revealing the white of what he assumed to be muscle. He always felt giddy at the sight, surely this was the line where things started to get dangerous, but it looked so good. The gaps began to fill with delayed blood, he knew this one would go for a long time. 

But he couldn’t stare at his good work this whole time, there were other things to do. He drug against his thigh lazily, barely feeling the sting until a few seconds later, rising with the red blood, but still faint, probably more faint than should be normal. 

_ Maybe I’m super-resistant to slicing damage now…  _ He chuckled, the term “slicing damage” making it seem like he was a character in a weird RPG. He lazily sliced different parts of his legs, sometimes lifting one up to reach the ankle or shin.  _ New hidden exploit the devs don’t want you to know- Easy grinding strat that buffs immunity and regen has yet to be patched out, this game-breaking glitch has been very discussed in the media as of late,  _ he thought in his best YouTube clickbait voice, huffing out silent laughs at his own bad joke.  _ If I was in an RPG… I’d probably be super weak to fire damage…  _ He thought about the time his arm brushed the inside of the oven while pulling out some muffins and he whined about it for days. 

The cut on his wrist was now dripping, blood running down his arm deliciously. He looked in the mirror with pride, crimson painting his skin like a weird attempt at abstract art, some blood rubbed around from where he smudged it accidentally. Steam was beginning to fog the mirror slightly, telling him the water was ready. 

He took off his glasses and stepped into the bathtub, water splashing against him, the burning sensation making him wince, his hand shot out to turn down the temperature, just a bit.  _ Weak to fire damage… would hot water count as well? Maybe it’s just called burn damage…  _ When the temperature was just on the tolerable side of painful, he fully immersed himself in, all of the fresh cuts stinging in the water. Most of them had stopped bleeding by now, blood clots dotting the white porcelain of the tub, but the first cut on the wrist kept going, blood merging with water, spreading across his forearm, turning everything into a light red watercolor canvas. He’d wash it off then watch it return again, staining his now-pink skin again and again. 

He hummed lightly to himself as he uncapped some shampoo and lathered up his hair. It’s basically returned to normal length at this point, a bit shorter than when he shaved it and a lot less styled due to the lack of hair salons, but it looked fine. He still liked to take care of it, even if he never really did facecams or took pictures or went outside when not to walk Rat or pick up groceries. He liked keeping it soft, running his hand through it and calming at the sensation. Sometimes he imagined what it’s like compared to… Wait a minute… Bad really shaved his head for 10 thousand dollars, only for it to be returned fivefold months later? It was all for nothing! He didn’t even need to take that stupid deal… But to be honest, he couldn’t exactly say he wouldn’t do it if he had a chance to do it all over again. 

In the end, although he probably rationalized it as such, he wasn’t really doing it for the money. He was just tired of Skeppy’s constant nagging (he’d probably give into anything if Skeppy pressed enough), and, how did Bad describe it? he thought it might be cathartic in a way. He remembered the days leading up to the event, he even ceased his “hobby” for a bit, letting the scars heal up to not risk anything showing up on the camera. (It’s not that he needed to do it anyway, sometimes he would forget about it and be clean for weeks, sometimes he’d remember and do it bi-daily. It was a product of boredom, surely.) He thought about the coiling, stomach-curdling anxiety he felt, forcing his voice out of his tight throat when the camera was on him. But there were some nice parts about it, too. Skeppy assuring him of how good he looks, although maybe ingenuine, lifted his spirits more than he’d readily admit. And he got that sponsor! And mostly everyone was really nice about it! And the 10k, guess that was a plus, too. 

His fingers rubbed the conditioner in his short hair.  _ Yeah, maybe I wouldn’t not do it…  _ There was a small smile on his face, and he sang with a bit more vigor and cheer, forgetting about his other hobby for the rest of the night. 


	3. Deliberate Self harm Ha Ha

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> remembered this was a fic and also remembered i dont really have to care about its quality lmao sorry if any of yall actually read this for enjoyment ilyyyy also idk if any of u noticed but all the chapter titles dont really have anything to do with the chapter itself but theyre just songs i vibe with and correlate to this so yeah mash em together for a banger playlist

While waiting for his computer to boot up the next morning, Bad rolled up the sleeve of his hoodie to glance at some of last night’s work. The main cut was still opened to reveal dry blood between the scar, and purple-ish bruises were beginning to creep at the edges of the severed skin. It looked excellent, but at the same time, not enough. It was too thin, too measly and pathetic, and it would heal like the rest of them, inconsequential and without a scar. He didn’t like that. He wanted it to stick around, stay permanently tattooed into his skin like a brand. Maybe if it just stuck around, he wouldn’t feel the need to cut them into his body anymore, able to stare at the old ones and be satisfied. 

Long ago, when knives were never sharp enough and razors were hidden away, he had heated glass with a candle and burned himself, a little at a time, again and again over the course of hours. It hurt so much, burning was his least favorite kind of pain, after all. But it left such a wonderful scar… to this day you could see the faint discoloration if you looked hard enough. It put him off the self-harm for weeks, satisfied staring at the inflamed skin and tracing the harsh lines. Maybe if he could do it again, do the same kind of damage… he wouldn’t have to set aside to maintain the pretty cuts! 

Later today, when he wraps up his daily server maintenance and grinding on the DreamSMP and his roommate leaves for work, he’ll get out another razorblade and go as deep as he can. He grinned at the prospect before joining MunchyMC. 


	4. Stalkers (Slit My Wrists)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> two chapters one day pog?? i guess ive jsut been going through it lol. also i am literally so emotional over bads recent stream i love bad sm which makes me feel even shittier doing him like this sorry bad

By the end of the day, the scars looked more and more pathetic, more insignificant, they weren’t enough. Bad was itching to improve it all, try harder, do better. He knew he could, he’s seen enough pictures online of split skin and gore to know it could be done, and how worthless was he if he couldn’t match them? 

Back in the familiar bathroom, back with the familiar tools, back with his familiar arms, most scratches healed up and not even red with blood. It was pitiful. He couldn’t wait to tear it all apart. He felt his pulse quicken yet again at the prospect.

He couldn’t let himself go fast, couldn’t get too hasty or excited, he knew it makes the end result so much less satisfying. Setting the edge on the side of his arm yet again, he pressed down, this time as hard as he could, and slowly twisted his wrist, holding the razor down in one place as the skin tore itself. He saw the flesh split dramatically, and his breath quickened, wrist still steadily turning. It reminded him of an old bible story, how Jesus parted the Red Sea, letting his disciples through. He wanted to laugh. This would be a red sea, alright. 

He noticed his hand had begun shaking, it was hard to keep a strong hold of the blade. Slowly, slowly, he kept going until finally reached the other side of his arm. The opening seemed to tamper out from the original slice, he probably wasn’t pressing as hard and let up over time, that was disappointing, but oh boy… 

The cut was big, probably the biggest he’s done yet. If he had to guess, it was about a half-centimeter at its peak, maybe more. Oh, and now there was blood. A lot of blood. Jesus Christ, that is quite a large amount of blood. 

It ran down his arms and dripped to the floor, fat droplets staining the tile crimson. He would be delighted if he wasn’t worried about cleaning this up later. He shakily approached his other wrist, doing the same wrist-turning strategy as before, but he couldn’t apply enough pressure and it was definitely smaller than his other cut. But it bled too, very well in fact. The liquid tickled his arm and he almost felt a little sad that all this pretty blood was going to waste. Was that crazy? 

Experimentally, he swiped his arm on his cheek, grinning widely at the red smudge that was left there. Something about it was delightful, something about it just made him so happy. He mirrored the motion on the other cheek and giggled. He looked like a serial killer! He dipped his fingers into the blood and smeared it everywhere on his face and neck. 

Staring at his grinning blood-streaked face and shaking hands dripping with blood, he almost laughed again, “I look insane! Oh my goodness, am I crazy? I’m not crazy! I’m not crazy, this is just- just fun! It's funny!” 

He sounded delusional too, he had to snicker at it all. But he wasn’t crazy, he really wasn’t. This was all just for fun. He’s not crazy. He doesn’t  _ feel  _ crazy. Even if he was staring at the reflection of his bleeding cuts and feeling unsatisfied, even if he wanted to go bigger, go deeper, until scars overtook him and he drowned in blood, he wasn’t crazy! It’s not like he wanted to do this to others! ...Did he? He imagined Skeppy with droplets of crimson dotting his face like freckles, red staining his fingers as he- no! Bad didn’t want Skeppy in pain, or anyone else for that matter! But it’s never been about the pain, has it? It’s been about the oh-so-pretty result.

He licked up some of the stray blood, not wanting any more to drip on the floor. So much blood… maybe he should get a jar and slowly fill it with all of the spilled liquid, just so none goes to waste… Is that something an insane person would do? 

He felt a tingling behind his eyes and his vision blurred, head getting light and woozy. Uh oh. Did he ever end up eating today? No, he wanted to get another stack of obsidian so he put off lunch…

Looks like it’ll be a bath today. He scrambled to turn on the faucet before he passed out. It hasn’t actually happened yet, but he’s had some close calls with too little food and too many cuts, almost unable to stay on his feet from the lack of blood sugar. Or something like that, he thinks that’s how it worked. 

Though the low amount of actual cuts was unsatisfactory, he had to say he was interested in seeing how the large one was going to heal. Would it scar big and deep like he hoped? Or just be another disappointment? 

He stared at the wound. With the water lapping away at the blood, he could see the inside, the fatty tissue oozing wine. It looked painful, but he didn’t feel much of anything. It looked dangerous. Had it been over the vein it might even have had the possibility to kill him. No, that can’t be right. It wouldn’t- it couldn’t kill him. Bad wasn’t going to accidentally kill himself with this, right? He thought about wanting to go harder, go deeper, how he wanted to see more red, more hidden tissue under the flesh until there was nothing left but blood and bone. He didn’t really want that- right? This is just fun, it’s just an entertaining way to spend evenings, a cosmetics session more than anything, his mounting obsession with taking it further wouldn’t actually do anything than cause a few scars, right? 

His head hurt. He slipped further into the pinkish warm water, pushing his fingers through his hair. He’s going to have to make this quick, he still needed to mop up the blood on the floor before his roommate got back and he hasn’t walked Rat again yet. It would be dark soon.


	5. I Go Hungry

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> another short chapterrr   
> this time i actually didnt just base it off of my experiences lmao see im trying to have some coherence !!

Bad groaned. His back was aching from sitting at his computer all day, but he needed to finish reading these ban appeals and then talk with some of his admins about hiring new staff, then fill his quota for banning hackers. 

He couldn’t focus on the words on the screen, they seemed incoherent and meaningless, not piecing together to form any feasible statement. His dry and aching eyes kept sliding off the screen, being drawn to various objects around the room, anything but the document in front of him. Taking another swig of his long-cold coffee, he tried to ignore the slight tremor in his hands. He felt restless, the caffeine’s unfortunate side-effect of energy tugging at him, his foot tapping restlessly to try and ward off the feeling. 

He doesn’t remember the last time he slept, if he had to guess, it’s probably been a little over 30 hours now? He felt empty, a dull ache clawing at his stomach. It’s probably been even longer since he’s last eaten. But he couldn’t get up now, couldn’t let himself get even more unfocused. His staff was counting on him to get this done, and he’s been procrastinating all day. 

He would just use the hunger as a motivator. He could eat, he could sleep when he was done. He just needed to finish. When another pang of pain shot through him, he closed his eyes and savored it. This could all be over if he just does this. It would only take a few hours. 

He heard a whine and scratch at the door. He felt a pang of remorse for Rat, he hadn’t walked her all day he imagines. But he can’t do that right now. Can’t let himself get distracted. He pulls out his phone and taps out a message to his roommate. 

_ Sorry, but can you take out lucy for me today? Im really busy, ill make you dinner to make up for it!!! :D _

He ignored the guilt of shoving his issues onto someone else, making them take care of his poor dog for him. If he wasn’t such a useless mess he’d be able to handle both. He’s owned this server for years, why is it still such a struggle to do basic maintenance? He doesn’t deserve his server. He doesn’t deserve his dog. The only thing he’s earned are the gashes on his skin and blood seeped into his clothes. He exhaled shakily and tried to rub some wetness back into his eyes.

Well, back to work, no excuses now. He gulped down more cold coffee and forced his eyes to remain on the too-bright screen. His computer let out a small ping as someone messaged him. It was Dream. Asking if he was okay. Bad deleted it, he won’t get distracted, he didn’t know if he could handle going much longer without rest. He had to get this done.


	6. Lullaby [BONUS CHAPTER]

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> i don't really know if this should be "canon", but bads news today made me really sad and im not a monster, i couldn't stand writing the shit i usually do so fuck it. happy chapter. this is probably super short i cant tell i wrote it in a rush on my phone. also the next chapter was supposed to be about him going to a doctor but idk if I should do that now I'd feel bad. Maybe ill wait things out a bit b4 posting again or maybe I'll give u more bonus chapters if u like this

Golden sunlight filtered through the opaque curtains half-drawn over his kitchen windows. Bad woke up at a decent time today, he got to bed earlier, too. He made himself a few eggs and bacon for breakfast, and he doesn't have the gnawing feeling of hunger creeping in his stomach like usual.

Rat sat at his feet, lifting onto her hind legs to beg for some scraps of his meal. Bad grinned, he couldn't say no to that face. He made her shake for a bit of bacon, washing his plate as she ate it up happily. 

"Is Lucy ready for walkies? Lucy wanna go on a walk?" He cooed in his best baby-talk, grabbing her leash and pulling on his face mask. She jumped around him excitedly, eagerly awaiting the exercise. 

The patches of grass in between sidewalk and street were still coated in dew, the air cool instead of chilly, the sun being truly out for the first time in a while. The air felt refreshing rather than suffocating, and he couldn't help but appreciate the beauty of the scene around him, the path he takes so many times without actually seeing. 

No one else is around, it being relatively early on holiday break, aside from a rare passing car. The few birds that stayed around for winter chirped tuneless melodies, responding to each other as if in conversation. 

Bad was reminded of him as a kid, trying to replicate the bird's calls in an unsuccessful attempt to be one of them, as if being accepted as a fellow bird would grant him the ability to fly with the rest of them. He wondered if that had some hidden meaning. Probably not. 

Dried leaves caked the outer edges of the sidewalk, every few steps or so he'd step his foot onto them, delighting at the crunch from the dry leaves, sometimes disappointed with nothing but give from the wet ones. The wet ones were okay though, he reasoned. They're half the reason why the dry ones were so satisfying. 

As they looped around the block and were faster approaching his home once again, he stopped, letting Lucy do her business and savoring the feeling of sun rays on his cheeks. The subtle warmth that made him just a bit happier. Wasn't it scientifically proven that sunlight gives you serotonin? Something like that. Maybe he should go outside more often. For just a second, he let his mind go clear, and he allowed himself to be completely relaxed. Completely free.

A slight breeze blew by, gently waving the hair in his face. He let himself pretend that he was flying, far away from his problems on the ground. 

For a few brief moments, he could've swore that he was truly happy. 


	7. Hurt

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> "Hurt" by Nine Inch Nails is NOT therapy!! get help!! 😂

The gym was cold and barren, any employees or attendants closed behind their office doors, if they were there at all. The bright fluorescent's unyielding light leaving not a trace of darkness in the room, the windows acting as mirrors instead of displaying the pitch black outside. 

Bad sighed, tracing the area with his eyes, slipping his keycard into his jeans pocket. It’s been a while. Approaching his scantily-used locker in the men’s bathroom, he slipped off his jacket and jeans, not worrying about other people coming in to see his scarred body at… he pulled his phone from his jacket, 3:30 in the morning. One of the reasons he frequented this establishment was it’s less-than-ideal number of occupants, at least, in a business sense. For Bad, the less prying eyes, the better. 

As promised, he abstained from bloodletting his arms since his largest little pet project, only putting some deep knicks in his thighs or ankles when the desire overtook him. The shallow scratches became a light apricot, thin lines shading the skin like a pencil. The deep, wide scars took a long time to heal. What was it, a week? Weeks? Has it been a month? Honestly, he could barely remember, time seemed to slide and stutter by, some hours taking decades and some weeks lasting minutes. The gaps were a reddish-pink now, skin fully healed but perfectly displaying the previous gash. It was wonderful, and so utterly worth it. Bad hungered for more. He wanted to see the thick pink marks lining every limb, every spare expanse of skin. He wanted it to scar and never go away. He wanted-

Distantly, a door opened. Bad’s heart stilled. He almost ran to the bathroom stall, slamming and locking the door shut, heart racing in his ears, goosebumps rising on his bare skin. No one could see him like this. He couldn’t let people look at this. His flesh prickled at the thoughts of someone seeing, everyone seeing, their ceaselessly watching eyes glued to his masochistic hobby. His legs shook. He let his forehead press to the stall door, breathing in deeply. It’s almost humorous, he loves leaving marred skin and burnt flesh, but the thought of anyone else realizing makes him sick. The more permanent he lets this become the higher the risk of him getting caught, the more he cuts the more to see. Did a part of him want people to see? 

A small beep was let out and another door was opened and closed. That was the keycard. They were gone. He was alone. He was so blessedly alone. He felt his pulse slow and he carefully unlocked himself, peeking out of the bathrooms, grip iron-tight on his phone. The place was empty as before. It must’ve been whoever was still working. He let out a small, shaky sigh. 

First, he got warmed up with about 30 minutes on the treadmill, running a little over three miles as he let the music blaring through his earbuds drown out the sound of the machine and his pounding footsteps. Legs already feeling sore, he moved to some weightlifting, doing five sets of twenty, though he took embarrassingly long breaks between each. He really needed to work out more frequently, nowadays he only came around once a month, as if to prove to himself that his membership wasn’t a total waste of money. The new year brought a feeling of self-awareness and dread. Will he even bother to keep this up? Why did he even try? It’s not like he needed to stay in shape for anything, he wasn’t in any more competitions or tournaments, he barely even showed his face, online or otherwise. 

After a couple more sets on various equipment, he moved to the rowing machine, doing a basic workout, which according to the preset timer was 25 minutes. Wiping his face on his shirt, he decided to call it a night, showering himself off quickly before letting himself air-dry in a towel, pressed against the cold tiled walls, scrolling through Twitter, softly smiling at fanart and textposts. They were all so nice, so talented. He didn’t deserve it, he never did. He tapped a like into one of him and Skeppy, arms wrapped around each other, faces smiling. Bad wore a short-sleeved shirt with a cute design on the front. No scars tattooed his arms, creeping from the wrists like spiderwebs or fingers. There wasn’t any purplish skin under his eyes, no sunken cheeks from lack of eating. His hands weren’t shaking from over-caffeination, his chin wasn’t rough and scratchy with unshaved stubble. Eyes behind glasses weren’t red from staring at a screen and forgetting to sleep last night, the clothes on his body didn’t sag. And he wasn’t alone. That was probably the most inaccurate part. Bad wanted to laugh. He was so pathetically different from how his fans saw him. They wouldn’t like him if they knew what he really was, no one would. Probably not even his best friend. He doesn’t blame them. He kept himself a secret for a reason, he knows what a disgusting creature he truly was. He tried his hardest to make himself likeable, tried to be a good person. Was he just lying to them? Fooling them into believing his facade? Did that make him even worse? 

He watched water drip from his hair. It was times like these he realizes just how much he hates himself. Hates what he looks like, what he’s doing, who he is. Something burns in his chest. It’s almost rage. Rage at his own existence, whatever put him here, the fact that he has to be alive and impact people around him. He doesn’t want to. He doesn’t want people to be affected by him. Just one wrong move and you can ruin someone’s day. A few wrong words can destroy someone’s perception of the world. And there are so,  _ so  _ many people watching him, consuming him, taking note, replicating, taking value in every single thing he does. It’s terrifying. It’s exhausting. Every bit of advice he gives must be airtight, foolproof. What if it’s wrong? What if he messed everything up? It’s his fault. They trust him, they love him, they listen to him. Bad loves them. He hates what they do to him. He hates what he does to them. He hates so much. 

He’s shivering now, cold droplets drip down his shoulders and run down his back. His stomach curdles and his mouth tastes bitter. He doesn’t want to exist anymore. For the first time in a while, he hungers for a razor, pleads to have one of his knives, fingers twitching to have a blade. He didn’t want it to pass the time, to make him feel. It was a necessity. He needed to hurt. He needed to prove he hated himself as well. He needed to see the skin split and blood flow onto the floor.  _ Christ,  _ he needed it. 

He pushed off the wall. Towelled off his hair and got back into his clothes. Swiped his key and pushed out the door. In the cold, dark air seizing his damp skin, he glanced at the dimly-lit building in scorn. It made him hurt, but not enough. It’ll never be enough. Whatever. He’ll cancel his membership.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i'm back boys!! i'm sure you're all sooooo very happy to see me.


	8. Oh Ana

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> been a while lol heres a bad and short chapter as a warm up

Bad tapped his keyboard keys with a harsh finality, slumping with a long exhale, spinning the chair away from his desk. He finally finished today’s work, and worked a few days ahead. He still had to work on more of the structures for “Kinoko Kingdom”, but he figured he was owed a small break after, what, 6, 8 hours? 

He crashed onto his bed, jacket slipping to expose a lightly scratched band of thorax. Feeling a lazy ache in his chest, he grabbed the large throwing knife from his nightstand and drug it through the skin on his stomach, disappointed by the pitiful red mark. 

It’s been awhile since he went at it with a razor, but that was just because he didn’t have time. It wasn’t like he was  _ happier _ or anything, because then that would imply he was doing it for some reason connected to his feelings. Which wasn’t true, because it was just a way to have fun. To pass the time. 

Swirling the heavy knife in lazy circles in the air, he admired its beauty, even if it was never as effective as he wanted it. Chopping down, he let the edge drop on the sliver of exposed wrist emerging from his dark hoodie sleeves. 

His heart thudded with the sudden pain, and he grinned a little at the chunk of broken flesh. That worked. Letting the knife clatter back down on the desk, he held down his sleeve to prevent the fat drops of blood from spilling on his desk. The cut flesh was nice, but not deep enough. He forgot how fun this was. He’s been letting himself get too distracted, let his wounds heal too far. How pathetic. He needs to do more.


End file.
